Before I was anything, I was something

Before I was anything, I was yours. Fearfully, wonderfully made, or something.

But I wonder sometimes if you meant me to be this

a half of something, a shadow of something,

a flickering image of light or wrath or...

something else entirely

and I wonder if I am missing that part of cruciformity

that looks like the cross

because I don't want to bear anything anymore

I just want to be back to that something

Was I radiant? Was I free? Was I loved? Was I enough?

Or am I just a fool,

hoping for mirrors to tell me I am more than I am,

more than a severed vine, rotting, worthless

more than a shameful creature, cowering in the corner of the Garden

more than someone else's Something

this is your body, broken for us

here's my body, broken for someone

but

here's my body, broken for nothing

sorry, I know you wanted me to be something

or was it Some Thing?

Someone's Some Thing?

i can't remember but

this is your blood, take

I have been bleeding for three weeks straight

and feel nothing but lightheaded

and sorry, but take anyway because

what else

can

but

taken

how deep how wide your love

how small and useless mine

how small

and

useless

mine.

Comments

Like a Tree

Or consider that tree In the dead of winter See how bare-bone it is? How affected and exposed it is? How sturdy and mortified it is? Every year, you know New life Fresh beginnings a creation, a refuge planted by streams of living water Sparks along the limbs Every year, you know Old death a sorrowful bow braced by wind and storm roots creaking Stripping the body clean Every year, again and again At nature's mercy secure, yet defenseless sheltering death and life Together At once The tree bears it all Do you need me to tell you? God is like this tree naked, unashamed, other, known mercifully at our mercy invaluable, yet commodified incomparable, yet ignored struck down, but not destroyed bearing fruit in and out of season Teeming with Life everlasting God is like this tree And we cannot imagine it without him

Be Free

Morgan Harper Nichols I saw myself in the mirror and for a brief moment, I loved what I saw. Then instantly I corrected. No, don't like it, don't accept it. You need to eat healthier. You need to workout. Then, x pounds later, you can like it. I loved my body, then instantly doubted that love. "Don't love that, then you won't take care of it." Why was that my natural narrative? Why do I expect that loving my body means I won't do what's best for it? I'm all for discipline and doing the hard but good things in order to be healthy. But I'm not even a little bit for letting hatred, dislike, disappointment be how I'm supposed to feel toward my body. I'm calling that moment of love a miracle. I loved my body in its ordinary, everyday state. This body of mine, that carries my pain, my fears, my shame. This female body--so often hated in word and deed. It's a miracle for a woman to love her body, given the history of harassm...

Pondering the Pandemic III: Cruciformity

As this pandemic continues and its effects take a toll on our communities and collective morale, I feel a responsibility to spur fellow white American evangelical Christians away from the grotesque roleplay of the political martyr--a role I admit we have been trained in for at least two generations--so that we can mobilize to meet our neighbors' needs. Churches should be thinking creatively and compassionately about how to bring healing where there is suffering, and to do so with the confidence that we are welcoming the presence of Jesus each step of the way. I am more convinced than ever that the white American evangelical church has utterly forgotten cruciformity --meaning that we are a people who, as Jesus taught, deny ourselves and carry our crosses. Said differently, we are a people shaped by the cross and its implications. I fear we have forgotten this basic truth, and along the way, our imaginations shriveled up. We have become so consumed with obtaining ...

Roots: A Communal Journal

Search This Blog